Under the Andes eBook

Some twenty thousand or so was the amount, and I did
not even put myself to the trouble of recovering it.
I placed a friend of mine, a plodder and one of those
chaps who are honest on account of lack of imagination,
in the position thus vacated and sighed with mild
relief.

My experiment with Harry had proved a complete success.
Left to the management of his own affairs, he had
shown a wisdom and restraint none the less welcome
because unexpected. He was glad to see me, and
I was no less glad to see him.

There was little new in town.

Bob Garforth, having gambled away his entire patrimony,
had shot and killed himself on the street; Mrs. Ludworth
had publicly defied gossip and smiled with favor on
young Driscoll; the new director of the Metropolitan
Museum had announced himself an enemy to tradition
and a friend of progress; and Desiree Le Mire had
consented to a two weeks’ engagement at the Stuyvesant.

The French dancer was the favorite topic of discussion
in all circles.

The newspapers were full of her and filled entire
columns with lists of the kings, princes, and dukes
who had been at her feet.

Bets were made on her nationality, the color of her
eyes, the value of her pearls, the number of suicides
she had caused—­ corresponding, in some
sort, to the notches on the gun of a Western bad man.
Gowns and hats were named for her by the enterprising
department stores.

It was announced that her engagement at the Stuyvesant
would open in ten days, and when the box-office opened
for the advance sale every seat for every performance
was sold within a few hours.

In the mean time the great Le Mire kept herself secluded
in her hotel. She had appeared but once in the
public dining-room, and on that occasion had nearly
caused a riot, whereupon she had discreetly withdrawn.
She remained unseen while the town shouted itself
hoarse.

I had not mentioned her name to Harry, nor had I heard
him speak of her, until one evening about two weeks
after my return.

We were at dinner and had been discussing some commonplace
subject, from which, by one of the freaks of association,
the conversation veered and touched on classical dancing.

“The Russians are preeminent,” said I,
“because they possess both the inspiration—­the
fire—­and the training. In no other
nation or school are the two so perfectly joined.
In the Turkish dancers there is perfect grace and
freedom, but no life. In Desiree Le Mire, for
example, there is indeed life; but she has not had
the necessary training.”

“What? Le Mire! Have you seen her?”
cried Harry.

“Not on the stage,” I answered; “but
I crossed on the same ship with her, and she was kind
enough to give me a great deal of her time.
She seems to understand perfectly her own artistic
limitations, and I am taking her word for it.”

But Harry was no longer interested in the subject
of dancing. I was besieged on the instant with
a thousand questions.